


Surrender

by morganndrake



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vietnam, F/M, Vietnam War, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 14:16:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10024397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganndrake/pseuds/morganndrake
Summary: An Uncharted AU set in the 1960's, during the war. Sam gets drafted.





	

Sam sat at the table anxiously, listening to the radio static.

He tapped his fingers against the table. They were announcing the dates. 

He bit his lip, saying silent prayers that his birthday wouldn’t be called. 

You walked into the dining room, drying your hands with a rag when there was a pause between the dates.

They called out his birthday.

Your eyes met with his. They were blank, glossy, heartbroken. 

Sam slowly shut the radio off, setting his head in his hands. 

Neither of you had words to say. 

You laid down your rag on the table, stepping behind him and putting your hand on his shoulder.

He stood up and walked into the bedroom.

Sam went to bed early that night, but he didn’t sleep. 

* * *

A week later, you had woken up to him sitting up in bed. 

His face was in his hands again, and he dragged his hand through his hair.

You startled him when you touched his back, and he turned to you, smiling softly.

He laid back down and held you tightly, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Sam didn’t let go until he absolutely had to.

The draft took hundreds of men from their homes, their families, without warning.

The trucks came early to pick him up. His duffel bag was slung around his shoulder. 

Sam pressed a kiss to your forehead, and you cried into his chest. 

You knew you weren’t the only one that was crying.

Sam looked back at you one last time before stepping onto the back of the truck. 

You waved him off.

He wrote you every day after that.

He wouldn’t talk about what was happening over there. 

Instead, he talked about how he missed the smell of fresh laundry at home, trying to forget the overwhelming smell of blood from the dead comrade next to him.

He talked about how he missed the flowers in the garden, trying to forget the sight of hundreds of bodies in the fields.

He talked about how he missed the sound of you singing in the kitchen, trying to forget the sound of the man screaming in the tent next to him.

He talked about how he missed your touch, trying to forget the careless and rough bandaging from the medics in a hurry.

He talked about how he missed you, trying to forget the hell that was called war.

* * *

Sam stubbed out his cigarette in the dirt, folding another letter into his pocket. His shirt was dirty, sweat and clay caked on his skin. He hadn’t showered in days.

The humidity stuck onto his skin. The mosquitos bit at him. The sweat running down his temple dripped onto the ground.

He watched numbly as a 19-year-old boy was brought into the nursing tent in a stretcher.

His leg was missing, and he was screaming, crying out for his mom. His screams were piercing, yet Sam could feel nothing.

The boy’s screams went to silence minutes later.

He looked away when a medic walked out of the tent, blood staining his clothes. The medic immediately broke into tears.

Sam picked up his helmet and walked away. The platoon was about to go on another patrol. 

Death wasn’t a fear anymore. 

In fact, death stared him in the eye everywhere he went. 

Between the lifeless eyes from comrades piled on top of each other and the empty eyes of those who were still alive, everyone expected it.

A helicopter flew overhead, chopping the air and making the palm trees rustle underneath it. They issued an all clear from above, and Sam reluctantly put on his helmet. 

Silence and stealth was the key to survival. If the platoon was spotted, it was only moments until it was wiped out.

Sam held his rifle above his head while the platoon trudged through the muddy water. They all had to ignore the snakes that swam past their legs, and the spider webs that hit their faces as they walked.

No one spoke a word, maneuvering through the waters weeds and grass.

It was quiet.

Sam knew they were being watched. They all knew they were being watched.

One wrong move, one wrong step, and it could cost them.

The private at the front of the line waved the group ahead. There was a mine embedded in the ground.

A body flew into the air. A blood curdling scream could be heard. Sam couldn’t recognize who it was. He was dead by the time he hit the ground.

Sam couldn’t blink before his platoon was being riddled with bullets. 

They were being ambushed.

Sam ducked for cover behind the nearest tree, knowing it wouldn’t be long until the platoon was left with only a few men. 

The gunfire was deafening. His hearing was shot. Everything seemed like a silent film. 

He glanced over his shoulder to see a soldier land in front of him, a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. 

Sam leaned back behind the tree, shutting his eyes. 

He reloaded his rifle, holding his breath. 

He was determined to make it out alive.

Sam took a deep breath, and stepped out from behind the tree.

He was determined to come home to you.

* * *

Sam’s letters would come every week. Now and then, one or two of his letters would go missing from a mishap in the mail. However, they would always find their way back to you.

You would open them with a smile, noting the pen marks from his cursive. You could tell a lot from his letters, from how he was feeling, if his hands were shaking from lack of cigarettes, and if he was writing in the morning or at night. 

But then they stopped coming.

You waited at the door for the mail to come by, frantically grabbing at the stack of mail, throwing the bills and other letters to the side, urgently trying to come across one from Sam.

You began to panic. You just wanted to call him and ask if he was okay. But it didn’t work like that.

Desperateness flooded through you when a lost letter addressed to you arrived a week later. It was from Sam.

“ _Y/N,_

_I’ve tried to keep this topic away from the letters. You don’t need the details of what is happening over here._

_However, things haven’t been good. I’m scared, but I’m determined to come home._

_I only wish I could have you in my arms again._

_Only a little while longer, and I can finally be home._

_I love you with all my heart, I always will.”_

_-Sam_ ”

Your eyes drifted to the bottom left corner. 

The letter was dated for two weeks prior. 

Sam hadn’t sent you anymore. It was the last one.

Your sleepless nights began to become more common, tossing and turning. You would sit up and re-read his letters to you, kissing the corners of the paper where you two had begun the silly tradition of kissing each other through the letters. 

You kissed the last letter he had sent; holding it tightly to your chest as you cried.

The letter didn’t leave Sam’s spot on the bed for the rest of the night. You ended up crying yourself to sleep.

A few days later you were finally given the answer to why Sam’s letters stopped coming.

Knocks on the door brought you off the couch, and a suited officer stood at the door.

He was holding a helmet and a pair of dog tags with SAMUEL DRAKE stamped into them. They had found them in a field, stranded in a sea of bodies with their own helmets and tags. They didn’t find a body with his gear.

You knew before the officer began to speak. You now knew why Sam’s letters stopped coming. You now knew why his last letter was sent weeks ago. You knew Sam wasn’t coming home.

The officer had brought you Sam’s helmet, he’d brought you his dog tags.

But he didn’t bring you Sam.


End file.
